


Othertown

by McGuck



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McGuck/pseuds/McGuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Socially-awkward young journalist Richard Marksley finds his life taking a taking a turn for the strange when his own shadow begins talking to him one night on his way to the bar. Is the shadow trustworthy, or is it playing Richard for a fool? Meanwhile, a supernatural entity threatens to bring down a disaster of apocalyptic proportions on Richard's small town of Breckvale, Maryland, and Richard must band together with three newfound friends to put a stop to what could be an inter-dimensional catastrophe of monumental proportions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work I've been meaning to share publicly for awhile - I first finished this about three years ago, and to date it remains my only finished original work. While I do have gender, sexuality, and race headcanons for most of the characters, I really want this to be up to interpretation. This work was mostly inspired by Stephen King, but reading it again after three or four years, it has a lot of parallels to Gravity Falls as well.
> 
> I will be reworking a lot of the later chapters and making some edits and changes, so posting may be delayed. Anyway, this is "Othertown!" I hope you enjoy.
> 
> *The character Edn (in my hc) prefers they/them pronouns, but the story refers to them with he/him pronouns (originally for convenience's sake). I would be more than glad to hear your opinion on whether or not I should revise that for the entirety of the story.

It was a small town. Nothing impressive – no towering skyscrapers, no magnificent office buildings, their corporate geometry thrusting into the sky like a great mechanical monster. No, there was only Breckvale. Breckvale, Maryland: a town that Richard Marksley was stunningly surprised wasn’t more well-known for its impressive mediocrity as a mildly popular tourist destination.

If you were an outsider, it was everything you’d want from a little bayside town: There were rows of small, quaint little houses and shops, there were seafood restaurants and outdoor grilling and, of course, the beach was never more than a few miles away. The roads in Breckvale were barely wide enough for more than single car, but that was okay, folks in Breckvale took it slow and easy, and that was well enough.

Well enough for everyone else, Richard supposed. _He_ certainly hadn’t come here for the small town life. He wasn’t exactly from a city, he guessed, but he certainly wasn’t from a town barely big enough to be called a spot on the map. Greenwich, Pennsylvania had been big _enough_ – movie theaters, mini golf, big ‘ol department stores slapped right down the road from a McDonald’s – in Breckvale, he had to drive nearly 30 miles to come across so much as a hardware store. An exaggeration, maybe, but an applicable one nonetheless.

Richard’s brows pinched together in an expression of disgust – he’d never have come here at all if it weren’t for jobs being so infuriatingly difficult to come by in Greenwich – or anywhere else they may have been useful, for that matter. Richard Marksley: 28 years old, and still looking for a job that was better than something a 16-year-old could pick up as an after-school gig.

He’d gotten one, he guessed. He’d been _promised_ something in journalism (“You come down here, we’re gonna set you up with something big, I’ll tell you that much!”) – what he’d _gotten_ was a newspaper column. He hadn’t graduated from with a B. A. in Journalism to write a _damn newspaper column in some backwater town_. It made in stark raving angry, but it also gave him means to support himself in his little apartment on the corner of James St. and Main – and that was what he _really_ needed, anger or no anger.

Well, it gave him _some_ of the means, at least.

It may have been the world’s greatest injustice, but if writing up blurbs about neighborhood disturbances and the price of crabs would help him pay the bills, than he supposed he might as well do it just as much as anything else. Of course, that wasn’t enough – God knows, a newspaper column wasn’t enough – so he’d been made an editor too, of course, and that pretty much guaranteed he’d be kept busy.

He wasn’t a social butterfly – but he still liked _going_ places on a regular basis, even if he skulked around in the shadows more than anything. Being the center of attention had never been his idea of a good time – attracted the wrong crowd; made people think funny things about you.

Tonight, though; tonight was one of those nights he wanted to get out and _do_ something- have a few drinks at a bar, probably, only thing he _could_ do at 11 pm.

He would later come to believe that it was this moment that he would regret for the rest of his life.

Maxwell “Rocky” Rockard’s tavern wasn’t far off – The Night Owl, it was called, and what an appropriate name – the bar didn’t even open until 6 pm, and Richard had the feeling that it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun if it _had_ opened earlier.

Richard rarely talked to any of the rabble-rousers at Rocky’s place. His father had always advised him to “stay out of it all when trouble was near,” and Richard had nary any problems disregarding the advice – he’d gotten a shiner or two in his high school days and since then he’d become a creature of habitual passiveness. _Well, not completely_. The fun of it all was watching them argue, but he was damn near sure never to look one of them square in the eyes – _like wild dogs, they were_.

He laughed aloud, his voice carrying for a few seconds on the crisp, night air before winking out like a streetlight. Richard thought that it might be a good night after all, for all the sourness that’d been enveloping his thoughts lately.

 _Not tonight, though, no, not tonight. Tonight’s gonna be fine, alright._ The Night Owl was still a couple of blocks and a crosswalk away, but Richard wasn’t in any particular mood for waiting. He crossed the street, waving chummily as a car honked its horn at him, and flitted into a shortcut in between a couple of restaurants. He could see the tavern now, the giant neon sign caressing the alleyway with rose-colored light. He was only a step or two away from the sidewalk when he stopped in his tracks.

The voice was so close behind him that he would have sworn he jumped nearly three feet in the air.

“What’s all the hubbub, Bub?” Calm, collected, a little bit charismatic – and, surprisingly, it was _almost certainly his own voice that had spoken_.

But, of course, the problem with that theory was that he hadn’t spoken at all.

Richard wheeled around on his heels, as if they were coated in oil. His eyes went wide, his heartbeat becoming a pounding drum in his chest. He had imagined it - _had_ to have imagined it. Maybe he had spoken to himself without noticing it, maybe he had –

“You’re not hearing things, kiddo, look over here!” It paused for a second, seeming to hesitate as Richard hobbled around in fear like an injured rabbit. For all of its calmness, the voice was rapid and demanding. In that sense alone, it was unlike Richard’s. “Slow down a second or two, will ya? I’m not going to hurt you! You’re gonna get the cops on you, dancing around like a lobster’s pinching your ass!” It laughed after this last comment, seeming amused with its own sense of humor – Richard wasn’t.

He had begun to calm down, now, and was rapidly beginning to accept the mysterious voice as some sort of drug-induced hallucination. He hadn’t taken anything serious in years, hadn’t planned on it, either – but he’d taken that headache medicine earlier that day – a store brand. He knew he couldn’t trust the generic label. His father had warned him about that, too. Warren Marksley had often known his shit when it came to such matters.

 _But of course, that wasn’t it either, was it?_ It took him a good thirty seconds or so to focus on the origin of the mysterious voice, and even then he had to do a double-take before the truth of the matter really hit him. _His shadow was talking to him_.

 _His shadow_.

It was ridiculous of course, but there it was – his shadow, projected from the soft, pink light of the Night Owl, wavering and shimmering like a mirage, animated of its own accord. “There you go, there you go!” The cut-out mouth stretched into a smile – a smile much too large to be natural, a smile filled with razor sharp teeth.

A real shit-eating grin.

Richard let out a strangled cry; the sound of an animal in a trap – the kind of scream that seemed to personify Richard’s denial of what was happening. _Because it wasn’t happening, it wasn’t happening, it-_

He swiped at the grinning silhouette with his right hand, hoping in the back of his mind that the gesture might force the thing to go away – for a brief moment, the thing dissipated, swirling around Richard’s hand like the ripples in a pond, and winked out of existence. Richard sighed – a loud, happy, burden-lifting sigh. A smile etched its way across his face, and it was then that he realized his hand was beginning to throb terribly.

He looked down. Sure had done a number on his knuckles, thrusting them against the brick siding like that – he guessed he hadn’t noticed amidst all that panic over his _goddamn talking shadow_ , and now it was bleeding like a –

“You need a bandage for that? Rubbing alcohol? Sterile wipes?” Richard’s head jolted upwards, like one of those blow-up dolls with sand in the bottom, the ones that would keep on popping back up no matter how many times you punched them. He felt his mouth opening again, gaping wide like a fish’s.

The shadowed creature’s eyes opened suddenly, framing the brick texture beneath them.

 _Windows._ Richard was thinking deliriously now, his mind becoming more exhausted with each passing moment. _Those eyes are windows, and so are mine. Whatever that thing is, it crawled right out of my eyes and into my shadow, and now it’s going to kill me._

What was he _thinking_? He shook his head, trying to clear it. His thoughts were becoming fragmented and disjointed, his excitement at the prospect of a rendezvous at the Night Owl quickly becoming a thing of the past. In fact, the thought was gone altogether; it had flown the coop, left the building, the thought was not present at this t-

“You’re distracted, boy! Look sharp!”

Richard stood still, looking at the shadow as it danced and shimmered over the surface of the bricks. It smiled again.

“That’s right, you’re doing _fine_ now! Absolutely fantastically, A plus for effort, good ol’ Rich!” Suddenly, the voice became solemn, a stiffness overcoming the silhouette, as if it were a shadow puppet being manipulated awkwardly by some giant, unseen hand. Its voice deepened, and it was at this point that it sounded so eerily similar to Richard that it sent a shiver down his spine and into his boots. “Now, listen up – I’m only beatin’ around the bush here because I’ve _got_ to, but I’m not goin’ anywhere but _around_ it if you won’t stop screaming for a second ‘r two, huh?”

Richard managed a stuttering reply, nothing more. “Y-yes,” he swallowed, nodding his head curtly, eyes glued to the brickwork. “Alright, got it.”

The cutout eyes narrowed with a suddenness that was almost startling; the shadowy creature pulled back into itself and then, as if Richard’s words had been the stinging blow of a switch, it disappeared into a writhing swarm of angry, black insects – and then fizzled out altogether.

For a few moments, his eyes refused to wander from the place where his shadow had been not a second before – _this thing won’t take me by surprise this time, acting like its left me well-enough alone and then coming back for a second round, no fucking way_. He would have smiled if not for the fact that the fabric of his cozy little reality seemed to be crashing down around him.

It was in that moment that Richard became cold.

 _Freezing_ cold.

This wasn’t the type of cold that you felt on a January night, when the winds from up north made their long, arduous journey down the coastline – this was the kind of cold that froze you from the _inside_ , the kind of cold you felt in that moment of terror before you realized that everything was just a figment of your imagination.

Except it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. Not this time.

Richard’s right hand began to inch forward slightly. He needed to warm himself back into reality, to make sure he was still there, to wipe away that awful, maddening feeling of being frozen from the inside out. He stopped.

Or, rather, his _hand_ stopped. Just as soon as they had begun to move, his fingertips halted in the middle of the gesture in an almost comical fashion, his hand frozen as though he were in the midst of some bizarre pantomime.

It was only now that _real_ terror gripped him, only now as he tried scream but was unable to find his voice. His jaw unhinged, his tongue lolling around like a drunken worm in his mouth. A small, horse sound escaped from the back of his throat and then puttered out.

Richard began to speak– or, at least, it _sounded_ like Richard – his mouth was moving, he could feel the vibrations of speech migrating from deep within his chest and into his throat, but it was not really _he_ who was saying these things - It was not his own thoughts that emerged from between his dry, pallid lips. “Real sorry about the whole ‘hostile takeoever’ bit, Rich, but the way I see it, I ain’t gettin’ anywhere with you otherwise, am I?” He folded his hands, his fingers lacing together as if in morbid prayer. It was not by Richard’s doing. “I’ve been watching you for a little while, _reading_ you, I guess is a better word –”

Richard screamed internally. The creature was inside of him now, its shadowed tendrils bleeding into his extremities like some sort of twisted puppet master – if it heard anything of his misery, it chose to ignore it, continuing instead its abuse of Richard’s vocal chords

“You were goin’ to the ‘ol Night Owl tonight, weren’t you, Kiddo?” It laughed –a harsh, barking sound. Richard’s hand moved to his hip as it spoke – his other hand, bleeding and bruised, gestured wildly. “Didn’t seem like a bad idea, huh? Going to get flat-on-your-ass drunk? Wouldn’t be the first time, eh?”

He still couldn’t move. The creature was right, of course. It knew what his plans for the night had been, knew that he’d done it a thousand times before. The thought maybe him feel ill.

The pounding in his hand seemed to have migrated to his entire body now, the pulsing rhythm of his heartbeat moving to his arms, his chest, his head –

 _Stop it!_ He hadn’t said it out loud, _couldn’t_ say it out loud, but the scream had been heard, Richard was sure of it. His body ceased its movement - all except for his lips. “You don’t like it, huh? Lemme tell you a little something, okay?” It bit Richard’s lip. “I didn’t wanna have to do this, but I can’t have you muddling it all up with your insufferable panic reactions.” The voice became apologetic, although Richard had a hard time telling whether or not it was sincere.

“Look, I _am_ sorry, Kid. Take it how you will, but I gotta get to the point already.”

 _Fine._ The cold feeling was still there, but it was duller than before – less frightening, but still unsettling, like the fog that often hung over the Big Gunpowder Falls on an early mornings after a thunderstorm. He would let it talk, let it explain itself, whatever he needed to do for it to get the hell out of him and out of his life.

“I need you to listen to me – not just now, but _every time from now on_ that I talk to you, ya got it?” The voice paused, hesitating. “Come on, ya think I have all day? I talk, _you_ deliver – it’s the way of the world!” Its voice was persistent – it spoke with the rapidity of a used car salesman, and the thought didn’t particularly come as an inviting one to Richard.

 _Why should I listen to you? What are you?_ He didn’t know for sure whether or not the intruder could read his thoughts, but it was the only way he could think of to communicate, and he supposed that it would have to do. For now. Richard J. Marksley was not about to let just _anyone_ commandeer his life, _particularly_ not his own shadow!

His body jolted slightly – a response to whatever sordid emotion the intruder was experiencing, Richard assumed. “What I am is of no concern to you, boy! Best thing to think of me is a _guide_ of sorts, I’d suppose!” He snapped his fingers, his voice becoming uncharacteristically jovial. “That’s it, then!” A wide grin spread across his lips – the grin of the thing in the shadows with the cut-out window eyes and the razor-sharp teeth. “I’m your tour guide, Kiddo, and I’d be lyin’ if I said you weren’t in for some grade ‘A’ adventure! Hope you’re prepared, it’s gonna be _lots_ of fun!” Another laugh. Richard hardly found the humor in the situation.

 _A tour guide. For what?_ He was getting annoyed now, the pounding in his hand becoming a pulsing falsetto in his temples. He didn’t want to listen, didn’t care what this thing had to say – it was an illusion, anyway - he was quite sure that by tomorrow morning he wouldn’t remember a lick of what had happened tonight.

“All of these questions!” It threw its hands up into the air in mock frustration, although Richard believed he could sense a bit more than this – the creature’s emotions were hidden from him, for the most part, but there were cracks – cracks through which he could feel a growing sense of agitation and urgency. It made him feel the same way. His heart was still racing.

“You don’t have to like me, kid; you don’t even have to _trust_ me!” It paused, as if considering something. The pause was an uneasy one. “I’m gonna tell you right now, what I’m doin’ for you is more important than you think – I can’t tell you much, can’t tell you why I’m helping you out -” Richard would have rolled his eyes at this, had he been in control of them. “-You’ll understand when the time comes, though, ya get it?”

_It won’t matter. You’ll be gone come tomorrow morning, anyway._

The intruder giggled ruefully – a trilling, uneasy sound. “I’ll eat my hat if’n that’s true, my boy! I’ve got a _lot_ of work to do, down here in good ‘ol Richard!”

There wasn’t a soul around; not even the blazing headlights of car had passed by in nearly twenty minutes. It was as if Richard and the dancing, shadowed demon inside of him had been grabbed from the world and suspended in their own, private bubble in the universe. Richard suddenly felt very alone.

The feeling may have been understood by his companion (or, more appropriately, his uninvited house guest), for his next words seemed more urgent than ever. “I feel our time together is drawing to a close, Compadre. Do me a favor and head home for the night, huh? Night Owl’s not doing any good for you – least, it isn’t right _now_.”

Richard began to feel the cold running out of him, the stiffness in his body fading as the creature’s voice began to separate from his own. It was still _his_ voice, surely, but the intruder had ceased its grip on his tongue and spoke again as the shadow on the moonlit wall. “If you do anything – if you go there at the wrong time, _everything_ could be ruined – come back here tomorrow, same time. It’ll be okay then.”

Ordinarily, the urge to return with a smartass remark would’ve been great, yet something in the creature’s voice caused Richard to hold back this time. The intruder – the shadow – was more reserved now, speaking in a tone that was deeper, with nothing of the ‘quick-talking auctioneer’ confidence from before. It was a reassuring voice, a voice that you could _trust_.

_But should I? Should I really?_

Richard supposed it didn’t particularly matter, at least right now it didn’t – being told he shouldn’t go to the Night Owl tonight wasn’t much of a thorn in his side: after this unflattering little incident, he severely doubted he would have _wanted_ to go. He got a sudden, vivid image of himself, sitting in the darkened corner of the bar, muttering feverishly under his breath to an invisible tablemate. The thought made him laugh.

More frustration from his shadow. “You’ve gotta quit fooling around now. Time for that’s over, okay?”

Richard hadn’t considered his current predicament to be “fooling around,” but at this point he supposed that protesting wouldn’t serve much of a purpose. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry, man.”

“That’s my boy, knew you had it in you!” It was speaking faster than ever, now. “Sorry that our time’s gotta be so short, bucko, but as I said, I ain’t allowed to do much – I’ll drop by later and see how you’re doin’, but for now I gotta _amscray_!”

“Hold up!” Richard cried.

The shadow halted, its form distorting slightly, much like the air sometimes does on a hot day. “What is it?” It asked, sounding almost incredulous. It was an “I don’t have time for this right now” sort of tone.

Richard didn’t particularly care whether or not intrusive beast had time for him. For all the trouble it had given him that night, he was entirely convinced of his entitlement to say whatever the fuck he wanted. He supposed he should have been more polite about it.

“What should I call you?” He asked, “What’s your name?”

There was another second or two of hesitation from the other.

“Not gonna say whether if’n I got a real name, but for all intents and purposes, ‘Edn’s gonna be the closest you’ll come,” responded that chummy voice again, although it sounded unsure of itself this time.

“Edn,” Richard repeated. It was a strange name, a name which immediately gave Richard the impression that the entire truth wasn’t being given. It didn’t matter, though, not right now. He didn’t want to push it – the whole situation was already making him nervous enough without having to take it a step farther.

“Edn, Richard, Richard, Edn – more formal introductions later, seeya pal! Remember, _Night Owl tomorrow, not tonight!_ ” Perhaps fearing another question from Richard, the shadow disappeared suddenly, tendrils of smoky darkness whirling amongst themselves for a few, brief seconds before they vanished altogether.

Richard’s shadow – his _real_ shadow – was left behind.

“Almost lonely,” he said out loud.

It was time to go home, now; finally time to go home. He spun on his boot heel gladly – going home was the best thing that’d happened to him all night.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amery McIntyre's always had a problem with drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for heavy drinking, and questionable consent (both drunk, very brief)

Just around the time that Robert Marksley was leaving his old, coffee-stained apartment, Amery McIntyre was having his first drink of the night.

Earlier that day, he’d invited Dan Gray and Seth Robbins for a few rounds down at the ‘ol Night Owl – he’d ended up alone.

Although McIntyre was usually an amiable enough man, more than capable of enjoying himself alone, he found himself genuinely disappointed tonight – he would have much preferred being in the company of people with whom he regularly associated.

He looked down at his drink. He was an amiable man, alright – amiable until he started drinking too much, a habit he’d started up about five years ago. It had been right around the same time that his wife Marsha had passed away. The correlation was no coincidence. Marsha had been more like a best friend than a lover, really. Ashamedly, McIntyre had realized long ago that he had never really felt the strong, romantic connection that one was supposed to feel for his spouse.

That part didn’t matter, though. He’d still loved her; loved her deeply, in fact, and the ache of losing her would have been just as painful either way. That’s when the drinking had started.

He frowned. The topic was certainly not a favorite of his.

Sighing, he took a swig from his glass. He’d been able to hold back this time – ginger ale was his poison of choice tonight.

He smiled, his mood teetering on the edge of a mental precipice – a sort of melancholy satisfaction. If the boys had been able to join him tonight, his decision may have been an alternative one, but as it stood, he rather preferred his state of passive self-contemplation.

McIntyre had found himself nearly submerged in a festering pool of his own loneliness when he’d first arrived, yet he’d somehow managed to achieve a shaky serenity along the way, sitting here in the darkened corner of the homely little Night Owl.

Had he known what would transpire in the following thirty minutes, Ex-Professor of mathematics Amery Winslow McIntyre would’ve gotten up and left without another second’s notice.

Unfortunately, despite all his wisdom, McIntyre had not yet mastered the practice of predicting the future.

The two of them had come in at about half-past ten, growling obscenities and guffawing in such a way that rather struck McIntyre as the sound that bulldogs must make during copulation. They were big men, both of them. The first man - the larger of the two - wore a red bandana beneath which hung a large mass of filthy blond dreadlocks. The shorter man was mostly bald but had a large, black beard that completely covered what little neck he had. There may have been an attempt to trim it at some point, but it had since grown out unevenly and now appeared as nothing more than a bristled, ragged mess.

McIntyre glanced at the two briefly, quickly redirecting his gaze as the blond man scanned the motley little crowd. They weren’t causing trouble – not yet, at least, but anyone whipping out the F-Bomb like these rough-and-tumblers were…..well, anyone like _that_ might just have the potential to start capsizing tables at any moment (In McIntyre’s conservative mind).

Blondie and Bearded approached the bar at the same time. The bartender appeared not to notice for the first few seconds (McIntyre believed this was more intentional than he would have admitted), but finally withdrew his hand from its place on the countertop. He had been wiping from the scarred mahogany surface some of the residue left by his previous customers – bits of ash from a cigarette, condensation from a glass, and a few specks of dust that had perhaps originated from elsewhere.

Rocky had been tending the Night Owl’s bar for the past 20 years (at least), and had seen more than his fair share of hooligans. Many were unsuited for drinking among _pigs_ , let alone other people. Blondie and Bearded were nothing new to him – might not even be much of a problem. Rocky had seen plenty of thugs in his day, some of whom had been more agreeable than several of his _regulars_.

Perception put a lot of mismatched conclusion in a man’s mind, or so Rocky believed – best not to do any conclusion-jumping. In his earlier days, he’d found that even a blasé “I don’t want any trouble” had lost him a customer or two – just turned around and walked right out the door, they had.

“What can I do for you boys?” He asked.

McIntyre didn’t quite catch the conversation between the bartender and the new arrivals – it seemed as if the scattered small talk from before had grown into a dull cacophony of shouting, laughing, and rustling.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t any of McIntyre’s business – he would be sticking around, so long as a regular ‘ol bar fight didn’t start up. As soon as it did, he’d be out. As passive of a person as he was, McIntyre always seemed to end up in the middle of things when the shit hit the fan.

Bearded laughed at something that Rocky was saying. Rocky gestured with his thumb to the rows of drinks behind him.

Bearded shook his head briefly, and Blondie turned his gaze to the other guests. He reached into his oil-stained jeans and pulled something out: it took a few seconds for McIntyre to realize that it was a gigantic stack of bills, looking clean and fresh in Blondie’s filthy hand.

McIntyre’s brows rose in an expression of mild surprise. _Still none of his business, he wished he’d stop forgetting about that._ Couldn’t help it now, though, he supposed. Curiosity was getting the best of him – it was a bad habit of his, but what could someone _possibly_ need that much money for in a bar - particularly in a small-town bar like the Night Owl?

His question was about to be answered.

A loud sound, somewhat like a stone being launched at the side of a barn, broke the bargoers out of their merrymaking.

The bartender was hammering away at the countertop with an old-fashioned wooden tankard – pockets of dust rose into the air and dangled among the green fluorescents, souvenirs from another time.

McIntyre couldn’t help but wonder what the occasion was - it wasn’t until silence had overtaken the talking and laughing from the patrons that he would finally find out.

Rocky grinned widely, spreading his arms – a chummy, inviting gesture, and one that McIntyre had never seen at quite such a level of enthusiasm. He looked absolutely pleased with himself; _the look of a man who had just earned one heck of a profit._

McIntyre mused that this was probably case, Blondie’s handsome stack of bills having somehow migrated into Rocky’s chubby hand.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Rocky began cordially, “A round for everyone tonight!” He gestured toward Bearded and Blondie, giving them each a hearty pat on the back. “Thanks to these two sons-of bitches!”

The small crowd erupted into applause, whoops and hollers overwhelming the Night Owl in a chaotic buzz of excitement and approval.

McIntyre suddenly felt a small twinge of panic. He hadn’t wanted to drink tonight: arriving at the bar alone had banished any thoughts of the brew, and so far he’d been halfway decent about resisting the urge.

He watched nervously as the two began to make their rounds. It looked as though they were giving out tankards of beer – the Night Owls “special” brew – not a drink McIntyre was overly fond of, but who was _he_ to refuse free liquor?

_No. If I drink, I’ll get angry, if I get angry…._

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he got angry in a place like this, particularly around people like the thuggish Mr. Blondie and Mr. Bearded (he still wasn’t completely convinced of the presumed “Nice Guy” routine).

And yet….and yet, it was _free_ _liquor_ – it didn’t matter what brew it was, didn’t matter if he loved or hated it, McIntyre had a problem – if it was put in front of him, _he would drink it_.

It didn’t help that he would feel awfully impolite refusing an offer like this one – besides, what if Blondie and Bearded became offended upon his refusal? They certainly had the potential to rough him up, or worse….  
McIntyre swallowed with difficulty – it felt suddenly as though there was a great quantity sandpaper wedged in his throat, a feeling that pushed his stomach into his ass and sent the growing panic, once housed in his gut, up into his throat. His head began to tighten and feel dizzy.

_No, no -!_

The tankard had been placed in front of McIntyre with a level of matter-of-factness that seemed almost insulting; his crisis of little concern to Blondie or Bearded or, of course, the blasted brew itself.  
McIntyre chanced a nervous grin at Blondie – his head was swimming, his fingers were tingling…his tongue, a parched cardboard flap in his mouth.

“Th…Thanks,” he stammered. He chanced a half-hearted grin, feeling weak and sick - his face had taken on the pallid hue of a cadaver.

The big man nodded, giving him a forceful pat on the back that sent his upper body a few inches closer to the dreaded contaminant. He kept that small, sickly smile up until he was quite sure that Blondie and Bearded were far out of reach, concerning themselves with the other guests now that McIntyre had been served his poison on a silver plate (or, in this case, a plastic tankard).

It wasn’t just a phobia – not just a personal moral, not even a goal that McIntyre had set for himself; not really – although that was certainly part of it. No, Amery McIntyre had a problem, and that problem wasn’t particularly with the alcohol itself, but rather with his astounding lack of self-control.

It was his fault, really. Not a single other person could be blamed.

He took a drink. _A swig_ , he guessed.

The home brew was bitter and nutty – a taste that McIntyre found “acquired” at best and horrendously revolting at worst – but it mattered little, a confirmation which horrified McIntyre even more than the thought of Blondie and Bearded beating the hell out of him. It was too late. The tankard’s brim had already met his lips, the cold beer already greeting his wary tongue like an unwanted houseguest greets his mortified relative.

McIntyre frowned, noting Breckvale’s own special brew (“a small-town beer that packs a big-time punch”) as being just as caustic as he remembered. He wrinkled his nose, quickly smoothing his expression back to normal in the event that someone might chance a look at him.

_After all that trouble they went to, the last thing I want is for them to think me unappreciative._

Another drink. Another swig. He was perfectly alert, perfectly in control ( _should’ve been, at least)_. Half a beer was nothing, anybody knew enough to know that.

 _But it was something_. He knew that. _Knew_ it. Because the irrefutable proof was in the figurative pudding – Amery Jay McIntyre, retired math teacher and full-time bus driver at for Breckvale’s locals, would not be able to stop now that he had begun the cruel descent into becoming completely shit-faced. He was alone, anxious (now that Blondie and Bearded had made their unfortunate appearance, God knows he had been a little more level-headed just a few minutes ago), and completely lacking in inhibitions in regard to this poor man’s vice.

The beer wasn’t good, not by any means – but it was cheap, and getting one’s money’s worth was something that McIntyre often preached the benefits of.

Finished up the first one. Ordered another. Funny thing was, the more you drank, the better it tasted. McIntyre laughed – that was the art of marketing, wasn’t it? The first foul sip may have been the _coup de grâce_ of McIntyre’s unwarranted binge, had he not been well aware of the fact.

Number three. _Third time’s the charm_. He found that funny, too – wasn’t even buzzed yet, (thought maybe he was a little buzzed on his own stupidity – God knows, it wouldn’t have been the first time). And yet, he was finding everything so delightfully _funny_.

It was number six that began to make him feel a little fuzzy. At number eight, everything had become _much_ more funny than he could remember it being. At twelve, everything was hilarious. At fifteen…

McIntyre couldn’t remember much more than that. All he could remember, really, was waking up a few hours later in bed next to a strange man he didn’t know. He inhaled rapidly. _It_ was _blondie_. Oh my God, he had woken up in _bed_ with blondie! His hands flew to his face, his cheeks hot and his head a pulsating beat above his temples. “D-damn…” He scrabbled out of bed, the blankets trailing off his heels like a piece of toilet paper on a foot fresh out of the restroom.

This was bad, this was _really_ bad. The small room was yellowed and dingy and smelled of must, the thin wooden door was peeling varnish and the walls were peeling paint. He was hit with a wave of nausea, and he bent over to heave several times against the wall. Nothing came up, so he wiped his mouth, weakly, and hobbled over to the door. He raised two fingers in a half—hearted wave to Blondie, and then tiptoed out of the room.

He never remembered what had happened that night, and he really did not care to remember, even if he tried.

 


End file.
